


the harder the rain (the sweeter the sun)

by teamfreehoodies



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Banty Boys, Bathing/Washing, Emotional Conversations Through the Medium of Acts of Service, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia's Sense of Humor, Geralt’s Hair, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Fuck-Boy, M/M, Some Humor, WE LOVE HIM but truly, how is that not a tag????, idk i think it's funny, in that they are assholes to each other but its all from love, the man's a cad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29724717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamfreehoodies/pseuds/teamfreehoodies
Summary: “Can I help?” Jaskier asked, trying not to sound like he was comforting a spooked horse, for all that was how it felt. Geralt didn’t usually get visibly upset. Or, at least not this way, not loudly. Normally an upset Geralt was a quiet Geralt, more prone to delivering cutting remarks born of anger than experiencing— panic? Was he panicking?The emotion looked strange on Geralt, but there was hardly anything else it could be.In which Jaskier exhibits some *ahem* whorish proclivities, Geralt exhibits a surprising amount of emotions, and Roach is just trying her damn best. Humor, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, and~emotions~inside.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 131
Collections: GRB2020 Team Works





	the harder the rain (the sweeter the sun)

**Author's Note:**

> this is my GRBB for the lovely and friendly and downright AMAZING HeroStag! Their art brought this story to life!

Geralt found Jaskier in the middle of an... _altercation_ , though that seemed almost too big a word for the nascent scene he walked into on the streets of Vizima. Jaskier had his hands up in the air, arguing with a woman standing on a balcony, surrounded by a not insubstantial crowd as he tried to, apparently, convince her to toss his shit down to him. It wasn’t going well for either of them from where Geralt was observing next to Roach.

He took a more decisive bite of his apple and widened his stance, settling into watch. It had been a few months since he saw Jaskier last, a long winter and a late spring thaw leading to their meeting here instead of nearer Ard Carraigh where they normally crossed paths at the start of every spring.

Jaskier shouted something inane at the woman, and her offended gasp sounded across the street, eliciting excited murmurs and hooting hollers from the watching crowd. Geralt took another bite of his noon-time snack, smiling at the scene. Trust Jaskier to get involved with a woman almost as dramatic as himself.

Geralt put the apple between his teeth, grasping Roach’s reins to lead her closer. No use letting the bard flounder forever.

As he approached near enough to hear the abuse she was railing down on his friend, it was hard not to notice that this wasn’t just some barmaid the bard had offended. She was dressed in a fine dress— suspiciously fine for this part of Vizima: either a sorceress or a traveling noble deciding to slum it for some reason— though Geralt supposed the libido did make for a rather effective motivator.

“You’re a feckless lout and I want your dick to _fall off_ you vile simpleton!” She shouted, tossing a doublet off the balcony. Jaskier danced forward to catch it, trying fruitlessly to defend himself.

“That seems a tad excessive my lady,” Jaskier laughed nervously, bobbling the doublet as she pulled another item from the bag in her grip, tossing a journal ruthlessly into the street. Jaskier yelped, launching himself forward to catch it, finally losing his temper just as Geralt came up behind him.

“Now see here!” he cried, journal in one hand, doublet sleeve in the other, “I’ve had just about enough of this! Toss it all down or let me come up to get it, but this right here is just ridiculous!” he stomped his foot to punctuate his words, as if that were in any way meant to not make him look like a child. Geralt held back a laugh, looking curiously up at the woman. She was pretty, he supposed, a little fairer than Jaskier typically went after, but really that said more about how much Geralt knew of his friend’s proclivities than it did about her.

“What’s happened?” Geralt asked, startling Jaskier, who whirled around like a cat whose tail had just been trod upon before laughing, relief breaking over his face and chasing away the unnatural scowl.

“ _Ah_! Geralt! If you believe it, it’s not my fault this time around,” he declared, immediately turning his attention back to the woman, who took her chance and lobbed a pair of trousers down. Jaskier _just_ managed to grasp the edge of a leg with his desperate lunge, missing the main part of the pants by far. They flopped sadly into the mud, drawing a frustrated yowl from the bard.

“Oh, _fucking_ hell!” he cried, throwing his hands up, “do what you will but just _do it!_ This is no way to behave!” He put his hands on his hips, scowling up at the woman on her balcony.

“Who are you to lecture on _behavior_? It’s _your_ behavior that’s brought this down upon you!” she condescended from her balcony, eyes bugging wide in rage.

The last woman who’d tossed things at Jaskier as he picked his way out of a window had been content to only lob potted plants at him. But this one, furious and scorned, picked up Jaskier’s lute, holding it out over the balcony. _Not the lute_ , a half-remembered cry from long ago echoed in his head as Jaskier gasped, dramatically loud at the sight.

“Not so demanding now, are we, _bard_.” She spat the designation as if it were the lowest of possible insults. Geralt sighed, tossing Roach’s reins over the pommel and throwing his apple core to the side.

He’d not had to get involved in one of these spats in a while, but even he knew threatening the lute, a ludicrously fragile instrument, was a step too far, no matter Jaskier’s supposed crimes against this woman.

“If you so much as—” Jaskier cut himself off in a half-strangled shout of pure _horror_ as the woman let go of the lute: it fell straight down, and would have smashed heavily into the streets of Vizima were Geralt not already waiting to catch it. Jaskier looked ready to faint from the instant fear and then relief as Geralt cradled the instrument, safely caught, awkwardly in his arms.

“Fuck you!” the woman shouted, seeing her plan had failed. She lobbed the entire bag forcefully over the banister releasing an arc of Jaskier’s personal effects which spilled out of the top as it hurtled towards the hapless bard. Jaskier managed to get his arms up in time to spare his head the impact, but the street between them was now littered with small vials of ink, pens, various clothing items and other strange objects; things only a bard would own.

Geralt quirked an eyebrow at a clearly exasperated Jaskier, who sighed loudly, blowing his hair out of his eyes as he looked around mournfully at his effects.

The crowd, clearly having had enough of the show, were done reacting and had returned to their business, leaving the curious impression that they were the only two on the otherwise populated street.

“You have the most interesting encounters with women, Jaskier.” Geralt observed, coming forward so he could hand the lute back to the bard to examine. Jaskier laughed exhaustedly, grasping the lute with the surety of twelve years ownership as he began to examine it for scratches or damage of any kind.

“I certainly can’t be held to task for this one,” he replied, as Geralt turned to picking up the rest of Jaskier’s effects. “I didn’t even fuck her did I,” he added, his levity returning, “It’s been a while since I was chased by an angry wife rather than a husband.”

Geralt couldn’t stop the laugh if he wanted to, as he knelt in the muddy streets of Vizima, pulling ink pots and pencils out of the clay-thick dirt. “I seem to recall a warning about trout and strange streams,” he mused aloud, turning around to dump the bard’s possessions in his bag, which he held conveniently open for Geralt.

“Yes, _well_ ,” Jaskier huffed, glaring mournfully at his muddied items, “How was I to know he was married to a _sorceress_? I thought they were all busy fucking with politics and toppling over kingdoms, not haranguing helpless bards in shitty backwaters.” Jaskier slung his bag over his shoulder, huffing as it joined the lute, now safely in its case, also on his back. Vizima was hardly a backwater town, though there might be an argument for its shittiness.

“You’re many things Jaskier, but you’re definitely not helpless,” he reassured the bard, gripping his shoulder to turn him back towards Roach.

“You’re right on that,” Jaskier grumbled, looking down as he angrily worried at the straps of his bag, resettling the length, “it’s good to see you at least.”

“You’re not going anywhere yet.” A voice interrupted, low and menacing. They both looked up, startled to see their way to Roach blocked by the woman from the balcony, the sorceress Jaskier had upset. _Fuck_.

“Listen, I’ve said I’m sorry, I really don’t know what more you want from me!” Jaskier cried, the muscles of his neck under Geralt’s palm jumping with sudden tension as the woman prowled closer towards them.

“I don’t think you understand what you’ve done, whoreson,” she hissed, something feral and slightly... _off_ about her expression.

“Melitele's sodden tits, you crazy bitch!” Jaskier exploded, throwing his hands wide in an expression of pained frustration, hitting Geralt’s chest as the bard forgot how close they were standing. “So I fucked your husband! He was a shitty lay, and for _that_ I’m _sorry_ , but can we please, _move on_. He didn’t tell me he was married! It’s hardly my fault if he cheated on you!”

The mage laughed in response, a high-pitched mocking sound, and Geralt tightened his grip on the back of Jaskier’s neck, ready to whip him out of the way of an incoming spell if need be.

“You misunderstand me, bard,” she simpered, laughing lightly as she stalked forward, genuine amusement thinly covering the simmering rage that seemed to fuel her. “We've got an open relationship, I genuinely don't give a shit that you fucked him. I _give a shit_ that you destroyed my experiment and now I have to start over _you fucking idiot_." She hissed, punctuating her words with each step she took closer to them. “Do you have any idea how many years, how many _decades_ worth of work you wiped out with your whorish proclivities?”

“I’ve truly no earthly idea what you’re talking about, as it were, and, my ‘ _whorish proclivities_ ’ aside,” Jaskier responded, sounding genuinely offended, “ I can’t help but feel we’re talking at cross-purposes actually, er, _ma’am_. Do you think you might try _explaining_ yourself, rather than all this nasty business with the shouting, and the throwing of my possessions, and the— the _frankly_ uncalled for hostility?”

“Oh, I’ll explain myself, bard, fret not. You see, I’ve been trying for years, for decades, for more time than you’ve spent of an age to get your _dick wet,_ measuring the Sphere’s shift, tracking Chaos itself in an attempt to predict the next Conjunction, and you, _you_!” she roared, clearly caught up in her fury, positively crackling with an aura of power that set Geralt’s teeth on edge, and made Jaskier draw imperceptibly closer to him. “You _ruined my data_!”

This appeared to be the last straw for the mage, as she screamed, a wordless wail of pure rage and frustration as her magic boiled to a point: Geralt didn’t wait to see what she was planning on doing with it, instead yanking Jaskier around to shelter behind his body as he cast Quen, leaning over to hide behind the shield that burst into existence around them.

Just in time too, as a wave of magic slammed into them, knocking Geralt flat over Jaskier with the sheer force of the spell washing over his hastily erected shield. Geralt recovered quickly, snapping upright in time to flicker another sign into place to stop the follow-up attack she tossed at them, providing enough cover for Jaskier to scramble to his feet and reach for Roach.

The sorceress growled, shifting her heels and dropping into a grounded stance that would make even Vesemir proud as she pulled more Chaos from the earth, shifting the dirt beneath their feet. Torrents of mud and muck rose up in a wall between them and her.

Roach whinnied nervously, prancing anxiously, as Jaskier pulled himself into the saddle. The wall was tall enough now that Geralt could no longer see the mage over the rising barrier, and he wasted no time, dropping his stance to mount Roach behind Jaskier.

“ _GO_!” Geralt shouted, eager to escape before the mage finished whatever she was planning with her sudden excavation.

It was an uncomfortably tight fit, but they’d done it before. While it was harder to ride behind the saddle, at least Jaskier was a competent enough rider to take over for short distances. They only needed to get out of town, or at least far enough away to give this mage time to calm down.

They’d not ridden half a dozen-strides before the wall that had been between them and the witch shot up out of the ground in front of them— Jaskier pulled back on the reins, and Roach screamed, hooves skidding over the muddied track as she tried desperately to slow from her gallop.

They stopped just short of the mud barrier, but Jaskier was still pulling back on the reins, catching on that they’d slowed too late to avoid Roach rearing. She went up on her back legs with a shriek to rival the mage’s behind them, and Geralt, who hadn’t been bucked from a Roach since the first one, lost his tenuous grip and fell hard, landing flat on his back as they were both thrown from the terrified mare.

The only mercy was that his swords were still packed away on Roach. A fall like that while armed would have been more dangerous; as it was he was winded, and it took him far too long to stand back up.

Jaskier was a crumpled mess in the dirt, face-down and not-moving— the lute case seemed un-harmed Geralt noted, grateful that Jaskier at least hadn’t landed on his back; human spines were much more fragile than witcher ones.

“You don’t have to be involved in this, Witcher.”

 _Ah, fuck_. The mage had caught up to them, then. “That’s a sentiment I’ve often heard, but never seen proof of, unfortunately.” He replied, purposefully casual as he moved closer to Jaskier.

She seemed content to let him check on Jaskier, watching placidly from just enough distance that he wouldn’t be able to reach her with Aard: even Igni wouldn’t stretch that far, though Eskel might have been able to reach her if he were here. He’d always been more talented with signs.

He kept a wary eye on her as he reached for Jaskier’s neck, feeling for the bard’s pulse. Strong and steady, if a little fast with the lingering adrenaline; he stirred at Geralt’s touch, groaning fifully as he pushed himself to sitting, face scrunched up comically as he adjusted to the waking world once more.

“Fuck, sorry,” Jaskier groaned as he noticed the mage watching them, one hand moving up to cradle his head.

Geralt hummed an answer, still watching the mage. She was surveying them with keen eyes, though the initial wild fury of her first attack on them seemed to have dissipated some. A cold chill had taken its place, and an impish smile crossed her face as Geralt helped a worryingly feeble Jaskier back to his feet.

“I don’t think it’s fair you should suffer for the bard’s infraction. Give him to me and I’ll leave you be, witcher. You needn’t have involved yourself in this.”

“Fat chance of that,” Jaskier muttered, leaning heavily into Geralt as he tried to find his balance. “ _Fuck_ ,” he cursed, dropping his forehead to the juncture where Geralt’s shoulder met his neck. Every point of contact between them radiated warmth through the mud they were now both partially caked in, and Geralt was hyper-aware of the press of Jaskier’s temple against his neck, skin to skin, as innocent as it was.

“You said that already,” Geralt growled, bringing his attention back to the witch, scowling over Jaskier’s head at her.

“How precious,” the witch cooed, impatient now as she crossed her arms impetuously. “I’ve little time for your prevaricating, and less patience than I started out with.”

“Did _you_ see any evidence of patience?” Jaskier mumbled pointedly into his neck, snorting inelegantly where he still had his head buried in Geralt’s shirt. Geralt ignored him, but he wrapped an arm around his shoulders, prepared, again, to swing him out of harm’s way if the mage resumed her attack.

“Give me the bard. I won’t ask twice.”

“The damage is done already, and you’ve nothing to gain from killing him. Only your life to lose if you try.” A bold claim for him to make when his swords were still on Roach, and the only knife he had was strapped to his calf, a short dagger meant for last resort, not to take on a mage with. A bold claim, yes, but a true one regardless; Geralt knew his own limits, and the extra mutations hadn’t just turned his hair white. He wouldn’t let anything happen to Jaskier, not while he was still able to defend him.

“Insolence is the last resort of the truly desperate, Witcher. I’m not planning to kill the bard. But fine, what do I care? You want to suffer with him, be my guest.”

It would be close, but as Geralt reached for the dagger, tossing Jaskier behind him, he almost felt hopeful about the ending of this. Then the spell hit them both, a massive thunderclap of _pressure_ , exploding yellow-gold-white-hot as the world collapsed on top of him, and any thoughts of hope or of winning, or indeed, any thoughts at all, were drowned out in an instantaneous flash of overwhelming pain as he lost consciousness.

* * *

Jaskier was not normally the type of person that was likely to find himself in mortal peril. He was no stranger to small dangers of course; a tavern brawl, a broken heart, a venereal disease, perhaps. But big dangers were of the kind best left to Geralt to handle, being that he was, of the two of them, significantly better positioned to weather that particular breed of storm.

That is not to say that Jaskier has never feared for his life: he met Geralt and was kidnapped and roughed up not two hours later after all, and there have been a few times over the years— thankfully far between— when he found himself in similar enough danger, either from monsters or bandits, though usually it was short-lived and brief, and Geralt came swanning in to rescue him without much fuss.

It was a nice system they had there, a safe one. It hadn’t failed them yet, so when Geralt had found him outside Eizend’s house, he’d been prepared for it to follow much the same pattern. Geralt had arrived, all would be well now. That was the name of the game.

That was... not what had happened this time.

When this was over, and just a story Jaskier could weave into song, he planned to gloss over the first several seconds after he woke up from the witch’s strike; the crying and the panic was just— it was undignified, was all, and better left out of the story when he retold it.

They’d been blasted back through the building behind them, what seemed to be a castle’s worth of wood and debris burying them (or Jaskier at least, though he rather hoped Geralt was nearby) in the wreckage of what might once have been a winery or an alehouse judging by the smell.

Jaskier coughed, groaning under the pressure on his chest from the heavy wooden beam that had him trapped. He was twisted at an unfortunate angle, one leg crumpled uncomfortably behind his other knee, but beyond the weight over his chest and whatever was holding his ankle down and preventing him from straightening his legs, he seemed mostly unharmed. Just... pinned like a beetle and struggling to breathe and possibly still in danger of being murdered by the vengeful pseudo-paramour of his nightmares, apparently.

 _Fuck_ , this really hadn’t been in his plans for the day.

He tried to shift his arms, intending to brace against the beam and push it off of himself; he pulled up short of the movement, as agony whited out his vision, stealing what little breath he still had.

“ _Fucking cock_ ,” he gasped out, struggling through the thrumming ache across his chest and shoulders. Dust swirled through the air above him, and his eyes prickled with reflexive tears. “Right, don’t panic, Jask,” he said, though he was most definitely starting to panic, despite his better intentions. He’d never been _stuck_ like this before.

He squirmed, gritting his teeth through the pain as he tried fruitlessly to free himself. It did nothing except twist his shirt uncomfortably around his torso, and he bit back half a frustrated sob, blinking as tears slipped out of his eyes, tracing paths down his temples into his hairline. “Wasn’t even a good lay,” he muttered to himself, gathering the courage to suffer through the agony of moving his arms again.

It _hurt_ , pain like stinging wasps buzzing up and down his muscles as he moved his arms into position along the beam. Actually pushing hurt worse somehow, but as he made space between his chest and the heavy wood, he could breathe slightly easier, no longer quite so crushed.

Shifting the beam also released the weight on his ankle, and as he managed to push himself out from under the debris that pressure lifted, crashing off to the side with a sound loud enough it almost distracted Jaskier from the rush of sensation as the feeling flooded back into his foot.

Like the worst case of pins and needles ever, the joint refused to firm up as he drew his legs back and sat up, free of debris, but not pain. The space he was in looked worse from this angle, actually. He must have fallen in through a floor, because he could see the hole they’d made up above him, and— oh _shit,_ he reflexively flinched back from the witch standing in the gap, staring down at him.

“Let this be a lesson, bard,” she said, crossing her arms, “don’t fiddle with what’s beyond your comprehension.”

“Are you quite mad!?” Jaskier gasped out, far beyond indignation and landing somewhere in genuine bewilderment.

“Madness is a matter of perspective. You humans lack the years to see it, and your witcher is blinded by his own nobleness. Have you died?”

Jaskier opened his mouth, to say _what,_ he’d no idea, stunned as he was by the abrupt turns of this mage’s logic.

“Seems you’ve not. I’ve suffered the pain of my life’s work destruction, and now you and yours have suffered the same in spirit, if not in kind.” She idly kicked at the broken in wall she’d tossed them through, unlodging the remains of a brick that had survived the initial blast. It fell down to where Jaskier was, clacking noisily off the wooden floor, and sending vibrations shooting painfully up his leg. “The next time you’re attempting to escape a marital bed, at least have the courtesy to not break anything on your way out the window.”

She turned and left as suddenly as she’d appeared, leaving Jaskier alone with the dust, no earthly clue where Geralt was, and the kind of pain that was rapidly constricting his breathing the longer he experienced it. _Fuck_.

It took a herculean effort to drag himself to standing. He couldn’t put weight on his ankle, suggesting either a break or, at the very best, a terrible sprain. Either way, not ideal. The only benefit to standing over trying to drag himself out of there was that, at least from this vantage point, he could see the pitfalls of choosing any particular direction over another, and this way put as little strain on his arms as possible, which even now didn’t want to move, not against the pain across his chest.

He had to find Geralt. If Jaskier had survived then it was more than likely so too had the witcher, but even the logic of that assertion didn’t stop the fear from clogging his throat as he picked his way around stone and masonry, wooden beams and the smashed remains of whatever furniture had once been in this room, headed for the closest wall he could lean on for support.

By the time he made it to the wall beneath where the witch had taunted him, it was more clear than ever that this was indeed some kind of tavern. There was a massive hole in the floor, just in front of the only standing piece of furniture in the whole room, an aged bartop with, wonder of wonders, a mug of dusty ale still standing, unspilled. The hole captured his attention more than the bar— there was a tattered scrap of black cloth caught in the splintered boards, and it looked suspiciously witcher-sized.

Much as the prospect of a shirtless Geralt usually thrilled Jaskier, this particular omen filled him with dread. He hobbled over to the hole as fast as his injured ankle would allow, nearly collapsing at the side of it as he fell to his knees to look through it. It was dark in what must clearly have been the cellar area of this alehouse, but even so it was bright enough, and Geralt pale enough, that he was immediately visible as Jaskier leant over the unnatural opening.

“Geralt!” he cried, hoping to see some twitch of recognition— but the witcher remained unconscious, flat out on his back, in front of a stack of barrels. Thank the gods he’d not broken his neck on them (had he broken his neck on them?) but his continued unconsciousness was worrisome. Jaskier would have to get down there somehow. “Oh, we’ve really got to stop meeting like this,” he muttered to himself, peeking through to the lower level to try and spot a set of stairs.

It did seem rather unfortunate that they usually wound up in some sort of trouble every time they got together— not a particularly good sign, if you were the sort to believe in that type of thing. Not that Jaskier believed in things like that. But, well. He _was_ a bard, one tended to notice patterns.

He spotted a set of stairs in the far corner, and leant heavily on the bar as he made his aching way around to them. He had to sit down and scoot down each step, finding it too difficult to keep his leg under him long enough to actually support any of his weight, but it made quick work of actually getting down to the lower level.

Geralt was still out cold, but now that Jaskier was closer he could smell the overpowering grape scent of pre-fermented wine spilling out of the split open barrels just ahead of Geralt. He crawled over to Geralt’s prone figure, putting speed ahead of dignity in favor of getting his hand around the witcher’s wrist to feel for a pulse. Low-grade panic simmered in the back of his mind as he patiently counted the space between beats of the witcher-slow heart, and it felt like a small eternity passed before he felt the first careful thumps beneath the pads of his fingers. He dropped his forehead to Geralt’s stomach in shaky relief, too weak to hold it up as the adrenaline fled his body.

“I think it’s time to go, witcher,” he said, sitting back up to look at Geralt. It was dim, but not so dim he couldn’t see the halo of red spreading out from Geralt’s head, liberally coating his white-hair.

His stomach dropped, dread ballooning in his chest as he stared at the crimson pool his friend was laid out in. _Fuck_ what did a heartbeat mean in the face of a head wound serious enough to have bled a veritable fountain’s worth of— Jaskier frowned, leaning forward to get a better look at the liquid. It wasn’t spreading like blood, rather more like— _ah,_ thank the gods, it was just wine. The offending burst barrel was still leaking, and though Geralt’s hair was soaked in it, his head was not dented-in, his skull hard enough to survive.

Once again, Jaskier thanked Melitele for the hardiness of Witcher’s, though he couldn’t fight the tiny kernel of worry over Geralt’s continued lack of awareness. Maybe—

They were dealing with a mage after all, would it be so strange if the spell she’d cast at them had done more than just blow them back through the building?

Before Jaskier’s worries and fanciful fears could bear him too far away, Geralt groaned, furrowing his brow as he automatically tried to curl forward into sitting. Jaskier had to help him up, ignoring for now the soaked dregs of his hair where the wine— thankfully only wine, upon a slightly closer inspection— weighed it down.

“Not fond of beating a dead horse, but _fuck’s_ sake, Jask,” Geralt growled, more to keep his voice low than because he was angry, Jaskier (hoped) knew, bracing his hands against his head in an attempt to stave off the massive headache whose effects were displayed quite clearly across his face. “Stop sticking your dick in things that want to kill you.”

“I will have you know, _Witcher_ ,” Jaskier started, offended, but also relieved that Geralt was, mostly, fine, “I didn’t stick my dick in anything this time.” No, instead he’d spent several hours letting Eizend stick a dick in _him_ , though the bastard hardly knew what to do with it.

Dismayed and rather overwhelmed now that the immediate danger had passed, the absolute buffoonery of the last several hours of his life was thrown in stark relief against the fucking mayhem they’d wound up in. Jaskier fell back on his ass in the destroyed tavern, hissing as the movement jostled his leg, and fought the urge to just— put his head in his hands and let the madness take him.

Satisfying as it would be in the moment, he rather thought Geralt would think him weaker for it, and while there were many things he could stand, Geralt thinking poorly of him was, as it turned out, not on that list.

“She leave?” Geralt asked, still pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes.

“ _Yea-_ , oh yeah, she made her threats, got her jollies and then off she popped, back to the witch’s teat she dripped out of in the first place.” Geralt took his hands away from his eyes to stare in blank bemusement at Jaskier.

“What?” the bard asked, dropping to his elbows, then flat to the floor to better rest his own aching head. “I dare you to think of a more apt description, go on, dazzle me, witcher.” He waved a hand idly through the air, certain Geralt would think of nothing.

“You could’ve just called her a—” Geralt paused and Jaskier tilted his head in time to catch the adorable frown as Geralt tried to think of even a single insult more accurate and cutting than Jaskier’s own. “An unctuous harlot.”

“ _Unctuous_ —” Jaskier burst into startled laughter, then groaned when it aggravated his still sore chest muscles as he leant forward over his stomach, still wheezing even as he tried to stifle the mirth running rampant through his body. “ _Wh—_ ” he giggled, shaking his head and wiping tears from his eyes, half-pain, half-genuine merriment as he strove to pull himself back to some semblance of order. “Lilit’s sagging _tits,_ Geralt, where do you come up with this shit?”

Geralt shrugged, but he was clearly pleased, Jaskier could tell, and though they were surrounded by debris and spilled wine and the rising scent of fermented grapes gone sour with the interruption, he felt, for a brief moment, like there was no place else he’d rather be.

It took them quite a significant amount of effort to limp their way out of the destroyed ale-house, though in truth, Jaskier was the only one limping. Geralt seemed only to be suffering general aches and the kind of sour ( _heh_ ) attitude that came of being dipped unceremoniously in mashed fruit juice just starting to turn to wine, fighting a tannin-induced headache (that Jaskier also felt, just from smelling the concoctions, much less accidentally bathing in any of it,) and then also being thrown backwards through a building.

Once on the street things seemed better, though they’d drawn quite a sizable crowd to their location. Figuring discretion was of the utmost importance to avoid footing the bill and/or ire of the local taxman, they did their best to sneak around the crowd, heading for the other side of town and the bar where Jaskier had met last night’s spectacularly shitty lay. Honestly, Jaskier had had an awful lot of sex, and so of course, not all of it was mind-blowing, but last night had been a new low when it came to bed-partners.

“You think Roach is alright?” Jaskier asked, leaning heavily into Geralt as they skirted a market stall selling leatherworks of some kind.

“She’s a runner.” Geralt offered, as if that was any kind of assurance at all.

“ _Yes_ , I’m aware, we were almost runners too until she bucked us,” he snapped, irritated by the pain, not actually Roach, though the words were already out of his mouth before he could think to stop them. “ _Fuck_ , I’m sorry,” he looked at Geralt, contrite, “It‘s my fault she reared.”

Geralt merely grunted in response, continuing their forward march. His hair was still so red from the wine, it kept catching Jaskier’s eye as they made their torturous way east— at least when they made it to the inn Jaskier would have a chance to see Pegasus again. He’d only had the horse for a week or so, won off a game of Gwent back in Mirthe on his way here to meet up with Geralt, but even in just that time he’d begun to understand a little more of why Geralt sometimes seemed more fond of Roach than Jaskier himself.

They must have made quite a sight staggering into the inn, Jaskier just about _draped_ over Geralt’s shoulders to keep his injured ankle under him, Geralt red-haired, dripping, and shirtless to really complete the befuddling mess of their presentation.

The innkeep, bless her heart, took one look at them and shook her head. “What mess’d you get into this time?”

“Dhornea!” Jaskier gasped, faking a decent amount of outrage as he drew himself up to standing. (Or as close as he could approximate, given Geralt’s grip around his waist was the only reason he wasn’t flat on the ground.) “I am shocked and hurt! Nay!” he gasped, letting Geralt continue to chivvy him towards the bar to settle his tab. “I am _betrayed_!”

“You’re a menace is what you are,” Dhornea answered, setting down the glass she’d been cleaning to heft up the inn’s ledger book from behind the counter. “And you owe me fifteen orens.”

“Dhornea, my sweet—”

“Ah, ah, ah! There’ll be none of that silver tongue of yours bard, I’m owed fifteen and I’ll take it how you like, but I’m taking it.” She nodded firmly at him to seal her words, and then raised an eyebrow at Geralt, clearly taking in his lack of shirt for the first time. “We don’t stand on much ceremony ‘round here, but we do ask the bare minimum at least is just that you’ve got clothes on.”

“Right,” Jaskier said, digging a few coins out of Geralt’s pockets— a small miracle they’d not been lost, but then tight pants were good for more than just the view. Geralt put up with the man-handling, save for a side-eyed glare at Jaskier, who blithely ignored it. He’d taken worse liberties with Geralt before, he was sure.

Dhornea took the coins, and did him the dishonor of counting them, though he couldn’t say he exactly blamed her, given the givens.

“You’re square, bard. Figured you’d be back today, Eizend and Ozrema ain’t much known for long term affairs ‘round here.”

“Ahh.” Jaskier started, quite surprised she’d been paying attention to him. “Yes well, it uhh—” Geralt dug an elbow into his side, and he jolted, shooting a glare back at the utterly unrepentant witcher. “We’ll be leaving your fine establishment as it turns out, just now.” Geralt trod on his foot (the good one, he wasn’t cruel even if he was an asshole,) and he grimaced at the innkeep as he unsubtly dug his fingers into Geralt’s arm in warning. “Did your boy finish shoeing my horse?”

“Aye,” Dhornea nodded, tossing a thumb over her shoulder to indicate the stables out back of her establishment. “Should be or I’d wager he won’t be paid.”

“Quite,” Jaskier said, letting Geralt drag him out of the inn finally, cutting straight through the back entrance.

“Honestly, witcher, you needn’t be so curt,” he grumbled, though he could understand Geralt’s irritability. He too was looking forward to leaving this town behind as quickly as possible. While _Ozrema_ had seemed quite finished with them, there was still no point in lingering and tempting destiny any.

Geralt merely grunted, but he did slow his pace when they finally got to the stables, though that was probably only because he didn’t know which horse was Jaskier’s. It was the work of a few moments to point out Pegasus, saddle him up and get a shirt on Geralt; it often surprised Jaskier that they were roughly of a size to each other, but he couldn’t help to be sort of pleased by the knowledge too. It also rather helped that Geralt looked amazing in Jaskier’s softer gray shirts, although, to be fair, Geralt looked amazing in everything.

Geralt whistled, abruptly, a sharp piercing sound, and Jaskier, staring at Pegasus’ stirrup and wondering how exactly he was going to swing himself into the saddle with a bum ankle, jumped at the sound and nearly fell before Geralt propped him up with a warm hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry,” he grunted, though he didn’t explain the action. Instead he grabbed Jaskier by the hips and practically threw him up on Pegasus, which made the horse step to the side nervously, though once Geralt had got him most of the way it didn’t take much work for Jaskier to put himself to rights and actually sit up in the saddle instead of laying on his stomach over it.

“A little warning next time?” Jaskier grumbled, annoyed by Geralt’s impatience, irritable with his own pain, and feeling strangely guilty for the mess he’d inadvertently caused.

Geralt ignored him, grabbing Pegasus' reins before Jaskier could pull them from the pommel, leading them out into the street. He whistled again, a short sharp sound, and before Jaskier could ask why he’d chosen now of all times to feel musical, Roach appeared just down the road, approaching at a rapid canter.

“Neat trick,” he offered, impressed despite himself. “Never seen you do that before, this isn’t a new Roach is it?”

The Roach in question was still far enough away her features were mostly blurry, but it looked like the horse Jaskier had known all these years.

“No, not new,” Geralt replied, leading them to meet Roach on her approach. “She just doesn’t always respond.”

“Ahh,” Jaskier nodded, content with the explanation. “That’s our Roachie-Fish.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call her that,” Geralt grumbled, but he was smiling beneath the grump, the way he always smiled when Jaskier called her that, and some of the tension slipped from Jaskier’s spine.

They’d be okay. Just as soon as they got out of this town.

* * *

Geralt wasn’t satisfied until they were nearly half-a-day’s ride down the road, having taken enough turns that even Jaskier was hard-pressed to admit exactly where they were. His hair was dried fully by now, a startling pink color that would have been fetching were it intentional, or more expertly placed— as it stood, it just looked like Geralt had fallen asleep in a vat of wine which was close enough to the truth for horseshoes and contract work, honestly.

They set-up camp quickly, freeing the horses of their tack to give them a break and rub them down from the hard-ride to get here. They were a little ways from a stream, and Jaskier stared at the water longingly as they went through the motions of preparing the bedrolls and setting up their fire. He wanted to wash himself and he also itched to wash the unnatural pink out of Geralt’s hair, though the witcher seemed hardly to have noticed the color himself yet.

It was while Geralt was bent over Jaskier’s ankle, which he’d declared badly sprained but not broken, and promised to fix just by the power of wrapping it firmly, that his hair finally caught his attention. He paused, fingers stilling midway through tucking the end of the bandage into itself against Jaskier’s shin, so the points of contact, electric-warm, and the strange blankness in Geralt's eyes as they tracked the single strand of pinkened hair swinging in his face filled all of Jaskier’s awareness.

“Geralt?” he asked when the stillness stretched just past the point of breaking and then didn’t.

Jaskier’s voice seemed to be the kick needed to restart the witcher, because he finished quickly, patting the inside of Jaskier’s ankle gently and setting it back on the ground. Then, mechanically, as if he were a clockwork automaton instead of a man of flesh and blood, he stood up and walked to the river, stripping as he went.

Jaskier blinked after him, shocked and surprised, and more than a little concerned. He’d never seen this kind of behavior from the witcher.

The river was close enough that Jaskier figured he could hobble over to it, and what a stroke of luck that turned out to be. Geralt had gone to the water so suddenly he’d forgotten any kind of soap at all. With a sigh, and a slight wince, Jaskier retrieved the lye himself, pulling the much nicer bar from his own pack, making his slow way to the river.

He picked up each discarded item of Geralt’s kit on his way, concern growing as the vigor with which Geralt was scrubbing at his head— near enough to violence to set Jaskier’s teeth on edge— became more apparent the closer he got.

Geralt was knelt in the river, dunking his head underwater and practically torturing his poor hair as he scrubbed at the stubborn color clinging to the strands.

“Hey,” Jaskier said, slipping his own breeches off by the river bank. Geralt ignored him, still rubbing his hair as if he could work the color out with just elbow grease. Jaskier slipped out of his shirt as well, leaving everything piled up together, taking only the soap with him as he waded into the river closer towards where Geralt was in the middle, practically heaving with how hard he was breathing.

“Can I help?” Jaskier asked, trying not to sound like he was comforting a spooked horse, for all that was how it felt. Geralt didn’t usually get visibly upset. Or, at least not this way, not loudly. Normally an upset Geralt was a quiet Geralt, more prone to delivering cutting remarks born of anger than experiencing— panic? Was he _panicking_?

The emotion looked strange on Geralt, but there was hardly anything else it could be.

He stilled as Jaskier got close enough to touch, though Jaskier dared not reach out yet. They stood in awkward limbo, Jaskier with the soap in his hand, Geralt still half-bent over, hair dripping wet and frustratingly pink as it covered his face. He looked wild; lost and afraid, something almost child-like in how wide his eyes were as he looked between Jaskier and his own hair, seemingly unable to choose which to focus on.

“Can I help?” Jaskier asked again, wiggling the bar of soap enticingly.

Something about the movement seemed to jolt Geralt back to awareness, and he shut-down, every trace of emotion falling from his face as he stood-up awkwardly, nodding stone-faced to Jaskier’s question, then did an abrupt about-face and sat down in the river, pulling his legs into his chest and tucking his face partially behind his crossed arms as he— well, _pouted_ might be the only real way to describe it, honestly.

Taking the invitation for what it was, Jaskier knelt behind Geralt, dunking the soap underwater and working up a quick lather as he prepared to rub it through Geralt’s hair.

The color was stubborn, and the white suds quickly bled pink as they picked up the color, washing it out. It was a slow process, and the only sounds were the water rushing by, the crickets rustling in the long grass, and the rhythmic whirr and squish of the slow circles Jaskier was drawing on Geralt’s scalp and through his long hair. More distantly, Jaskier could hear the horses shifting, eating the grass, and faintly, so faintly he almost wasn’t sure it was real, the sound of Geralt humming what might have been a lullaby.

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier sighed, dunking the soap in the river. “I really didn’t expect— well, any of that.”

Geralt grunted, still hunched in on himself like the world was ending. Or maybe like he was cold, the river wasn’t exactly warm.

“Not your fault,” Geralt said finally, wiggling his fingers at Jaskier. Jaskier handed him the soap, then cupped his hands to pool some of the river water together so he could rinse the suds from Geralt’s hair.

“Watch your eyes,” he murmured, dipping his hands four or five more times, pleased to see the color running out a little with each handful of water.

The tension was bleeding out of Geralt’s frame, and he finally uncurled his spine as Jaskier took the soap back to begin scrubbing anew, determined to get the last remnants of the wine out of Geralt’s hair. Jaskier lost himself to the motions, pondering over Geralt’s strange reaction.

He desperately wanted to ask, but he didn’t want to intrude; Geralt gave up so little of himself naturally, it felt almost like a betrayal to ask for any more of him than he was willing to offer. Certainly not when it was Jaskier’s fault he’d had to reveal any part of it in the first place.

He handed the soap to Geralt again, gently rinsing his hair free of suds. This time the color faded almost back to it’s normal white-silver, and gently, he tugged a lock around to let Geralt see, intending to soothe him with the return to normal. Before he could pull his hand back, Geralt reached up and caught his wrist, tugging him closer so he had to lean over his back as he dragged his arm down to hold in his own hand, floating in the river just ahead of him.

Jaskier flushed, plastered hip to clavicle along Geralt’s back, curled protectively over him. For all that they were both naked there was nothing sexual about it, a purer sort of intimacy as Geralt took a shuddering breath in, and then blew it all out, still toying with Jaskier’s hand beneath the water. Jaskier laid his other arm around him in a loose backwards sort of hug, tucking his chin over Geralt’s shoulder, appreciating the clean scent of Jaskier’s soap on his hair and skin.

He was content to follow Geralt’s lead on this, even as he burned with both the curiosity over Geralt’s strange reaction and, alright, a little bit of lust, but anyone would be feeling a certain way with a wet and naked witcher pressed up against them. He was only a man after all, and a rather amorous one at that.

The water continued rushing around them, the sounds of nature pressing together to mingle with their breathing, a gentle symphony of peace and contentment. Pegasus whinnied back at their camp, and Geralt pressed his temple to Jaskier’s arm.

Jaskier hummed the first few bars of the lullaby that Geralt had been mumbling earlier, chasing the tune as he tried to work out where he’d heard it before.

Geralt’s grip on Jaskier’s hand tightened reflexively as he recognized the song, and Jaskier stopped, picking up his head so could speak. “Okay?” he asked, shifting slightly to lessen some of the strain on his knees from kneeling on the riverbed.

“I’m—” Geralt started, then stopped, clearly uncertain. Jaskier felt more than saw his jaw clench, close as it was to his own face, and he pulled back, sitting down to relieve the ache of his knees, even as unwilling to deny Geralt comfort as he was. Geralt, surprising him, turned around to face him, spinning with the hand that Jaskier had thought he would simply let go of.

“My hair,” he started, gesturing weakly with his free hand to the dripping strands plastered to his neck and back.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Jaskier offered, when it became clear that Geralt was either unwilling or unable to find words for whatever it was he felt needed explaining.

“I want to,” Geralt answered, tone some strange combination of cross and determined, as if he were angry about this being difficult to discuss. Although, knowing Geralt’s usual aversion to even acknowledging his feelings, perhaps that wasn’t so far off the mark. “My hair used to be red.”

Jaskier nodded, trying to imagine it. Geralt as a red-head seemed at once both shocking and absolutely natural, as if it were meant to be.

“It was—” he paused, looking across the river back to where Roach had joined Pegasus in lying down. “I told you they put me through the trials twice.”

It was almost a question the way Geralt said it, so Jaskier nodded, remembering the one and only time Geralt had talked about the process of making witchers. The system of cruelty that created witchers was not less despicable for what it led to, nor less heartbreaking for how long ago it had been in place. Jaskier didn’t like to think too long about it honestly, a sort of privilege he felt alternately guilty over wielding or which he ignored entirely.

“Eskel and I used to get mistaken for twins. Before the second round, we looked near-identical.” He reached up to touch his hair, tugging at the silver-strands. “After—” he laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “After I looked like this,” he made a dismissive gesture at his body, as if he weren’t absolutely gorgeous.

“So—” Jaskier ignored that for the moment, figuring he should track down the original point rather than getting sidetracked just this once. “So seeing your hair—”

“Too close.” Geralt frowned, frustrated, then shook his head, trying again. “Not close enough,” he growled, but his hand stayed in Jaskier’s, a show of trust that Jaskier tried not to read too much into.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s hand, leaning forward slightly. “Thank you for telling me, I’m just sorry that it was overwhelming for you.”

Geralt grimaced to hear that, looking away, but he left his hand in Jaskier’s, squeezing gently in either thanks or acknowledgement or maybe as a warning to let go— Jaskier wasn’t the definitive expert on what a squeezed-hand meant. But he hoped it was thanks. He liked to imagine that he offered more to Geralt than just songs and trouble, like maybe he helped in a more concrete way sometimes, even if it was just as someone to listen.

A breeze blew across the river, and Jaskier looked up, surprised to see that the sun was starting to sink in the distance. It had felt like mid-afternoon just moments ago. He shivered with the chill, and let Geralt pull him to standing, chivvying them both out of the river and back to the bank. He let Geralt manhandle him in front of the fire, drying them both off and then helping him get dressed, letting him balance against him as he tried to step into his breeches.

Geralt released an annoyed little huff of air when he saw the state of Jaskier’s ankle, but he re-dressed it without saying anything, taking off the soaked bandages to wrap a freshly dried set around it. He set the bandages out to dry over the fire, and they split a simple meal of travel rations sitting shoulder to shoulder in front of the fire.

Geralt was back in Jaskier’s shirt, even though he was sure he must have more shirts of his own in Roach’s packs. He was trying not to read too much into that. But as Geralt picked up his hand again, he thought... fuck it. Geralt wasn’t the kind of person to play games or do something without purpose.

“I’d like to meet Eskel sometime, I think.” Jaskier said eventually, disrupting the silence between them as he picked up the thread of their earlier conversation.

“He’d like you.” Geralt responded thoughtfully. A flush of something near pride lit up Jaskier’s chest and he smiled at Geralt, turning to face him, intending to make a joke— but Geralt was staring at him too, their faces close enough that Jaskier could see the individual variations of color in Geralt’s irises, though they were nearly invisible for how blown-wide his pupils were, gathering light from the rapidly darkening dusk around them.

“Yeah?” Jaskier breathed instead, afraid to move and break the careful tension, the magnetic pull between them. He felt electric, lit up with just how close they were, breathing the same air.

“ _I_ like you.” Geralt whispered, eye-contact like a supernova, keeping Jaskier trapped in his amber gaze.

“Yeah?” Jaskier asked, because all his brains were rapidly leaking out of his ears, melted by the intensity of Geralt, burning hot next to him. He leaned in, imperceptibly, and Geralt matched him, inch for inch. Centimeter for centimeter, until there was less than a breadth of space between their mouths.

“Yeah,” Geralt confirmed, his bottom lip brushing Jaskier’s mouth as he placed his thumb on Jaskier’s chin, tilting him just that little bit closer.

It was too much for Jaskier. He couldn’t say who gave in first, except that between one second and the next they slipped from holding that almost painful tension to learning each others’ taste, a bruising kiss that seemed to encompass so much more than just the points of contact between them, knees and shoulders and mouths, connected beyond just the physical.

Jaskier grabbed the back of Geralt’s head, pulling him in, dizzy with how desperate he felt to not lose this. Geralt was holding him just as tightly, broad hands spanned across his waist, hot and distracting as Geralt yanked him closer. He moved with the tug, slinging one leg over Geralt’s waist so he was straddling him, burying his other hand in Geralt’s hair as well so he was cradling the witcher in his grasp like he was something precious; because he was, because Jaskier loved him, and had loved him, and only hoped, desperately, that Geralt felt the same.

Geralt moaned, and Jaskier smiled, losing track of the kiss as happiness bubbled up in his chest, forcing him to break away with the sudden laughter he couldn’t contain.

“What,” Geralt asked, voice rough with something that _definitely_ wasn’t anger, given the ah— _pressure_ , against Jaskier’s leg.

“I just—,” Jaskier chuckled, overcome with how silly the thought that he’d just had was. “I can’t stop thinking that—” he broke off to giggle, dropping his head to Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt started running his hand up and down Jaskier’s back, dipping lower each time, building up confidence as Jaskier pushed back into it, trying to subtly encourage Geralt to grab his ass.

“Thinking what?” Geralt continued, finally cupping his palm around Jaskier’s ass, the delicious warmth derailing Jaskier’s thought as he moaned with the pleasure of it.

“What?” Jaskier asked, dazed, and then shook himself, because right, no, he’d had a thought. “ _Oh_!” he laughed, pushing back into Geralt’s hand, pulling reluctantly away from Geralt’s mouth because he could multitask damnit. “I was just thinking that it’s kind of funny that she’d be so fucking pissed,” Jaskier burst into giggles, kissing Geralt once more, because he could, because they’d been thrown through a building this morning, and now they were here, making out like horny teenagers. “She’d be so furious to know that not only did we not die, but that she kind of indirectly caused this.” Jaskier laughed, high and bright as Geralt kissed his neck, and he imagined, briefly that somewhere back in town the witch was gnashing her teeth, regretting that her little revenge scheme had done more good than harm.

“Didn’t cause it.” Geralt said, pulling back from where he’d been nibbling at Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier whined, a startlingly needy sound and then blinked at himself, shocked.

“What?” he asked, looking at Geralt, who’d gotten suddenly serious, hands squeezing Jaskier’s waist instead of pawing at his ass.

“She didn’t cause this. I’ve felt—” he paused, mouth working as he visibly put his thoughts in order. “You’re important,” he said finally, then shook his head, stealing another quick kiss from Jaskier’s slack mouth. “Always been important.”

“Always?” Jaskier asked, some realization waiting in the wings to bowl him over.

“Not many people see me.” Geralt admitted, catching Jaskier’s gaze. “You’ve always seen me.”

“I love you,” Jaskier gasped, because he almost couldn’t believe Geralt had beat him to it.

Geralt didn’t respond in words, but his actions spoke loud enough, and though it took him a— well, a _long_ time to say it, it was an enjoyable process. Jaskier certainly had nothing to complain about at all, and he was most definitely looking forward to hearing it again. And again, and again, ad infinitum.

After all, Geralt loved him. That was worth any price it had taken to discover.

**Author's Note:**

> Come see me on tumblr and pls send all your love to HeroStag! (if you want to compliment the art in the comments I shall surely pass it on as well!)
> 
> Also I hope you enjoyed, and please leave a kudos/comment to let me know!


End file.
